


The Importance of Being

by Daegaer



Series: For Art's Sake [17]
Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: 1920s, AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, Art, Artists, Gen, London
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1903824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1920s London, a young man known to some of his friends as 'Schuldig' takes a day off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Importance of Being

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Rashomon Challenge in the Summer 2014 Weiss vs Saiyuki Battle – some events referred to, and some not, in Schuldig's day before he comes to visit Crawford in _No Place Like Home_.

It was a treat not to be required to be _anywhere_ , especially not at home to do _real_ work, as Ernst called it, though he never turned up his nose at Crawford's or Silvia's money. Or anyone else's for that matter. Well, no need to think about pinch-faced I-Told-You-To-Call-Me- _Ernest_ today, he'd got up before him and was out of the house with a sandwich already made for his lunch. Even better, he'd kept enough back from his wages for not only his bus fares but also a cup of tea later in the day, and had stolen Ernst's cigarettes to boot. A mean and nasty way of economizing, he thought, running up the stairs to the top deck of the bus, but fuck it, a man had to take his pleasures where he could.

For a spring morning it wasn't too cold, which was good, because he was far too early and had to wait for the gallery to open. He leant against one of the walls of the square, watching people rushing to their respectable jobs. Eventually he had to go for a walk to keep warm, cursing the need to get up early from his own comfortable bed to avoid being trapped into unwanted work on what was supposed to be his day off. Finally he went into a shop to get warm, and pretended to take an interest in a shawl on a mannequin when the girl came over to inquire if she could help.

"It's my mother's birthday soon," he said duplicitously. "I was wondering how much this costs?"

She looked at him in irritating pity. "I'm afraid it's seventeen shillings." She looked around quickly and murmured, "Maybe if you have brothers or sisters to split the cost with? Or if you want to know a cheaper shop?"

She was just trying to be nice. No need to bite her head off. "Thank you, I'll have a word with the others at home about it." He smiled and made his escape back to Trafalgar Square and was rewarded by the sight of the gallery finally being open. He was one of the first visitors, and felt a little as though he should creep around silently. The mediaeval paintings seemed strange and alien, people with oddly calm expressions holding up their hands in stylized manners, the saints with flat golden halos around their heads, and light from heaven in distinct, bright shafts. As he followed the paintings further in time, things changed, the people looking more like people, their clothing hanging on them more naturally, and the light simply - _there_.

He stood in front of Botticelli's _Venus and Mars_ , admiring the way the light gleamed on Mars' skin. Crawford would like it, he thought, and would be able to talk about the colours Botticelli used to show a difference in the skin tones between the two gods. Venus certainly kept herself more out of the sun, though he had to say, if _he_ were going to paint the goddess of love, he wouldn't have her wear such an oversized nightgown. He didn't much like the plump baby fauns playing with Mars' weapons and armour, he decided, they were far too funny and cute. Botticelli was trying too fucking hard with them. Crawford would have made them sinister and wild, something you'd expect to see keeping gods company. He couldn't fault Mars' reddish hair though – now that really was a divine trait. Grinning to himself, he wandered on.

The painting he had come to see made him shiver. The rich colours of the ambassadors' clothes, and the curtain they stood in front of, the carefully shown assortment of items of science and learning, and the very strange perspective trick Holbein had put right in the forefront of the painting – it was all just like Crawford had said. He stood right before the painting, and the perspective-thing was an odd misshapen blob; he moved to the side and there, suddenly, it was a skull. He did it again, and then again.

"Ach, _toll_ ," he said, and froze, damning his own stupidity. It was all right, he thought. There weren't many people around, it was just one word, and he hadn't spoken loudly. Quiet, he told himself. Just be fucking quiet. He looked at the skull again and took out a sheaf of paper and a pencil. He was going to copy that if it killed him. The first attempt was terrible, but that was just like getting ready to run a race, nothing to worry about. The second was no better, and he scribbled it out in frustration, and practiced drawing other things in the painting instead – the globe on a shelf, one of the ambassadors' hands. Then he made another couple of attempts at the skull, neither of which pleased him very much. What was he doing wrong? he wondered. Crawford would be able to tell him, if he ever showed any of his drawings to him. It'd be easier to shown them to Silvia, he decided. It wasn't like her opinion didn't matter, but she'd be a lot more down to earth about the whole thing, he was sure. He stretched and stood up, going over to one of the guards.

"Excuse me, do you have the time, please?"

The man checked his watch. "It's five o'clock, lad. You've been drawing there for hours."

" _Five o'clock?_ Thank you."

"I've seen you here all day – go on home, son, the paintings'll still be here when you come back."

He smiled and nodded, suddenly ravenous as the fact of having missed lunch hit him. Outside, he sat on a bench and tore into his cheese sandwich, inwardly laughing at the thought of how horrified both Ernst _and_ Crawford would be to see him eating in the street. He scattered the crumbs for the pigeons and checked the coins in his pocket, still hungry. Enough for a pot of tea and a bun, good, and it would be dinnertime when he got home.

When he strolled into the kitchen, Sophie wasn't in a good mood.

"Oh, you're back, are you?" she said, and slammed a plate down on the table. "Here."

"Thanks," he said, as she marched off.

Ernst stood in the doorway, looking at him.

"She really is a lovely girl, Ernst, I'm never astonished you married her."

"Speak English."

"Why? So she'll be _sure_ I talk about her behind her back?"

"Where were you today?"

"The National Gallery – Ernst, you should come with me, you'd like it! You remember that book Papa had –"

"I could have done with a hand here, and you spent the whole day looking at pictures? You're not a child – what's wrong with you? Is that all you did?"

He looked down at his half-eaten dinner, then up, with one of his more carefully infuriating smiles. "Around about eleven I sang the German national anthem outside the Palace, and then it was off to Speaker's Corner to explain why the Kaiser was unjustly deposed, and then I spent quite a bit of time drawing little imperial eagles on every wall in London. Anything else you wanted to know?"

"None of this is a laughing matter! You're not careful enough! Do you _want_ us to be deported? Keep your stupid head down, speak English, use the damn English form of your name and –"

" – marry an English girl?"

Ernst looked at him in unfeigned dislike. "You are a little shit. Get out of my sight."

He was up from the table and running down the hall before Ernst had properly finished speaking, ignoring Ernst calling him, saying he hadn't meant he should leave, that Mamma would worry about him – Two streets away he came to a dead halt, feeling stupid. He could hardly go back now, he'd have to give it several hours if he wanted to have any dignity left and he had only five pence left to his name. Doing anything extravagant was out of the question. The day had been so good and now it was ruined – he paused; there was something he could do that would cost nothing, and that would get the earlier feeling back. Crawford would be happy to see him, no matter that it would be well after seven by the time he walked over to his lodgings.

He started off at once, and at the corner of Crawford's road made sure his hair was flat and neat, his cap straight and that he looked every inch a nice boy. He stood at the bottom of the steps and took a breath. Right. It was time to stop being himself; it was time to be Schuldig. He drew himself up and went up the steps to ring the bell. When the maid answered the door he gave her a confident, charming smile.

"Good evening," he said. "My name is Schuldig. Is Mr Crawford at home?"

**Author's Note:**

> After World War 1, many Germans resident in Britain were deported to Germany, even if they had lived in the UK for many decades - British wives and British-born children of Germans were also often deported.


End file.
